Families North West London
July/ August 2016
Midi-Me has
a few inset days coming up so I very cleverly booked a break the Cote d’Azure
for she and me. Sorting that assuaged my guilt about taking a two week
grown-ups’ holiday in the Yucatan and Havana with Mr Angelina (there are some
pictures on my Instagram account @mynotesfromtheedge and posts about this epic
trip on my blog).
Mr A sent
his own Midi-him a picture of a black and gold sombrero as a joke, saying he
had bought it for her. She replied back words to the effect of “Cool!” So he
was faced with a dilemma: not to buy the sombrero because his fifteen year old daughter
was probably being sarcastic or to buy the sombrero because she actually
thought it was ironically cool. My advice? “Don’t buy it.”
We worked
the market in 100F heat, stall by stall, looking for nick-nacks and paddy-wacks
for the three (in total) Midis (two his, one mine). I stopped to handle some maracas
which I thought a wonderful idea as Midi-Me is so musical. “What’s she gonna do
with those?” asked Mr A. “Play them!” I countered, helpfully demonstrating with
a cheeky 10-second shimmy. I realised I was buying them for myself. Upon his
advice I instead chose a cute wooden spinning top and a white top of the
wearing kind (one I could borrow...)
At the airport
we had time to kill. As we walked around, the normally laid-back Mr A encountered
a vast heap of overpriced synthetic velour sombreros in assorted sizes and hues
and became somewhat crazed, flinging sombreros around. “Which one shall I get
her? The red one? The yellow one? The green one?” “Get a small one,” I
reasoned. “No I think I should get a bigger one; how about this, or this?”
There was nothing I could do but shake my head and walk away. I became momentarily
sidetracked with some maracas and two shakes later I returned to find him
clutching a turquoise monstrosity with gold braiding, too heavy for anyone but the
butchest Mexican to carry on his head for more than 30 seconds. (Number of
people we saw wearing a sombrero in Mexico: zero.) “I’m not carrying that for
you,” I remarked.
The book! |
Octopus named after her in Mr Angelina’s children’s book which is being published this summer by Penguin Random House in India. Ayeshaand the Firefish is about a brave 10-year-old who accepts a mission to save the world while travelling it. It’s a bit like a kids’ version of the Da Vinci Code but cleverer, funnier and more unputdownable. Our heroine embarks on this adventure with the help of a sarcastic snail on a surfboard, and under the radar of her hedge-fund-manager-mother and her househusband-father. The story was born out of so many bedtime stories that Mr A made up for his Midi-girls when they were Mini-girls.
The last
few months has been an education for all of us. Midi-Me and I have watched as
Mr A has skilfully edited and honed his manuscript and now… it is ready for launch! Inside are cute
illustrations and the cover is colourful and sparkly with a beautiful Puffin
logo in the corner… just like what we read when we were kids! I am beyond
thrilled for him, and I get to see my name in print, on the thank you page. I
was his self-proclaimed muse of course (– a very important job which luckily
could be carried out alongside my three favourite activities, i.e. eating,
thinking about writing and watching Real Housewives.)
So the
moral of this story is: if you want to write a book but for whatever reason are
not doing it, marry someone that will and experience the glory vicariously. I
realise that’s not a very good life lesson for one’s Midi-Me but heck, no one’s
perfect.
Oh and if
you are wondering, Midi-Me loved the spinning top as much as she loved the
octopus and was glad I didn’t buy the maracas. And yes, Mr A’s Midi loved the
monstrous blue sombrero too! Shows how
much I know about teenagers… I’ll stick to Housewives.
mynotesfromtheedge.blogspot.com *
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